


an old head on young shoulders

by the_littlest_goblin



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Essek Backstory, Gen, Pining, Politics, Unrequited Love, Wild Speculation Regarding Kryn Society
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-15
Updated: 2020-01-15
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:28:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22261087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_littlest_goblin/pseuds/the_littlest_goblin
Summary: “I’m not…particularly interesting. Don’t like to talk about myself much."The story of a Shadowhand.
Relationships: Essek Thelyss/Caleb Widogast
Comments: 36
Kudos: 243





	an old head on young shoulders

**Author's Note:**

> Me, becoming unhealthily attached to an NPC to the point of writing ~9k words worth of backstory that will inevitably be disproven by canon? It's more likely than you think.

Rosohna is not segregated by any rule, official or unwritten, but patterns emerge as they will in any city. Generally, drow populations are higher in the central districts of town—the rich districts which spiral outward from the Lucid Bastion. To see a drow living at the outer edges of the city, the Corona District especially, is a sign of significant poverty, and certainly an unconsecuted individual.

Essek lives in the Corona District. The boarding house which he has called home for the past several years sits right up against the outer wall separating Rosohna from the surrounding Ghostlands. He has never stepped foot in the wealthy areas of the city. Until today.

He only journeyed to the Gallimaufry District in the hopes of getting a slightly better price for some scrap metal. The blacksmith in the Coronas knows him well, and knows exactly how desperate he is for cash. He’ll have better luck in a negotiation where he is an unknown entity, even if his worn, patched clothing gives him away somewhat.

He tries to ask around for blacksmith, or any nearby metalworker, but the wealthy shoppers and professionals all turn away at the first sight of his dirt-smeared face. Sighing away his frustration, Essek resigns himself to wandering until he stumbles across his goal, or until his feet grow tired enough to drag him back to Wartta and her low-ball prices. Whichever comes first.

It’s extremely difficult to focus on looking for a smithy, however, when every passing building gleams brighter and shinier than the last. There are no barkers calling enticements out to passers-by like the marketplace he usually frequents; the shopkeepers here don’t need to shout— the merchandise glittering in the windows are alluring enough on their own.

One storefront in particular catches Essek’s eye, and he finds he can’t resist walking over to peruse the stacks of books set up on the street, no doubt designed to lure people inside the doors to where the real, pricier treasures lie. 

Essek hasn’t owned a book since the roc attacked his parents house. They could barely afford such indulgences as a family, and Essek on his own must save every penny for food and shelter. Even these marked-down paperbacks are surely out of his price range.

A particularly thick volume catches his eye, the only hard-bound book in the lot. There’s no writing on the spine, so with one finger he pulls the tome out far enough to read the title.

_Dunamancy: A Student’s Guide, Volume I_ leaps out at him in delicate silver lettering. 

The breath catches in Essek’s lungs, and he pushes the book back between its fellows before anyone else can get a glimpse of the words. But he doesn’t remove his hand.

He was expecting pulp fiction, or a collection of mythology, or something of that sort. Dunamancy is the closely guarded jewel of the Kryn Dynasty. Only the best, the proven, the consecuted are permitted to study its secrets. To find an instructional guide in a simple bookshop is insane.

He can’t remember deciding to do so, but suddenly he’s pulling the book off the shelf—slowly, casually— and in one smooth motion, he’s tucking in under his coat.

He glances around surreptitiously. No one spares him a glance, the shopkeep safely inside and out of view, everyone walking past far too focused on themselves to notice one young elf.

Blacksmith forgotten, Essek hurries back down the street as quickly as he can go without drawing unnecessary attention, thinking only about getting to his dingy, rented bedroom and devouring his prize.

* * *

The purple-dyed leather cover stands out starkly against his thin, gray blanket.

Essek has been staring at it for several minutes now, unable to bring himself to open the book. Taking it was barely a decision, more like an instinct, and now that the adrenaline has faded, he finds himself almost frightened of his loot. To actually crack its spine and read its contents feels like breaking some kind of law. For all Essek knows, it is.

_Fuck it_. Steeling himself, he reaches out a shaking hand and flips open the cover. There’s a name inscribed in blue ink on the inside, too smudged to fully make out. Secondhand—that explains the book’s presence at the store. Donated by accident, perhaps, or sold with other discarded possessions after the owner had passed. Whoever sorted the books in the shop must not have looked very carefully, or was somehow ignorant of its significance. 

He flips another page. The table of contents divides the book into four chapters: History of Dunamancy, Theory of Dunamancy, Cantrips, and Level One Spells, each with several sub-sections. 

Essek is no wizard, but he knows how magic spells are categorized, and that the levels go much higher than one. The more powerful stuff must be in volume two, or three, or however many books there are. 

He wants to steal them all.

Sitting down on his hard, lumpy mattress, leaning back against the water-stained wall, Essek begins to read.

* * *

_Stupid, stupid, stupid!_

Essek slaps a hand hard against the rough, stone wall. It stings, badly, joining the ache in his left knee from when he fell and twisted his leg. He deserves the pain.

How could he be so fucking _stupid_?

“Settle down in there,” the guard’s voice calls across the cell to him, half-hearted and bored. Essek doesn’t respond.

It was just one fucking spell! He’d just needed to create a diversion. He thought it would go unnoticed, not get him arrested. 

He didn’t mean to hurt anyone.

Sound catches his attention: footsteps descending, soft conversation. Two new arrivals appear in the archway at the bottom of the stairs, one clad in armor and the other in fine robes, their faces blocked from Essek’s view by the prison guard’s stupid, massive helmet.

The guard steps aside to reveal the newcomers, and Essek immediately scrambles to stand at attention.

“This is the one?” asks the robed man, an elderly drow, his wrinkled face framed by a short, well-kept white beard. Kind, silver eyes look Essek up and down curiously.

“Yes, Shadowhand Cronun,” the prison guard squeaks nervously. He tries awkwardly to get close to his visitor, but the Shadowhand’s personal guard stands steadfastly in his way. 

“And what exactly is his crime? ‘Practicing dunamancy without a license?’” Deep-set laugh lines crinkle around the Shadowhand’s eyes and lips as he smiles at his own joke. 

“Uh, no sir,” says the guard. “He injured Lady Hora Icozrin with his spell. She demanded his incarceration.”

“Hora is an old drama queen. She barely scraped a knee.” Turning to the jailor, Cronun says, “I assure you the charges will be dropped by the morning. In the meantime, you will release the boy to me.”

“Sir—”

“Now, if you please.” The Shadowhand doesn’t drop his kindly smile for a moment, but the pure authority emanating from his demeanor has the jailor scrambling for the keys so nervously that he drops them twice before finally finding purchase in the lock and popping Essek’s cell open. 

Cautiously, Essek approaches the door. Once it shuts behind him, Cronun extends a hand out toward him. 

“Essek, is it?” he asks. “My name is Cronun Thelyss. It’s good to meet you.”

“And you, sir,” says Essek. He accepts the handshake, dumbfounded.

“Leave us,” he says, addressing the prison guard. The flustered man doesn’t even bother protesting.

“You know,” says the Shadowhand, turning back to Essek with a soft smile, “I was in the square as well when Lady Icozrin…tripped. I saw what you did.” Essek hangs his head in shame.

“My deepest apologies, sir—”

“Oh, don’t you dare! Never apologize for being talented, boy.”

“Excuse me?”

“How old are you, Essek?”

Essek hesitates a split second before answering honestly. 

“Sixty-eight.” 

He’ll just have to hope that Cronun never speaks to his landlord, who only rents to Essek under the impression that he’s one hundred and two.

“Extraordinary. And where, pray tell, did you learn how to cast that spell? I know all the young students of dunamancy enrolled at the Conservatory, and you are certainly not one of them.”

“No, sir. I, er, learned it from a book.”

“Self taught! I love to see a man after my own heart.” Cronun winks conspiratorial, and Essek wonders if he will ask how he obtained the book in question. He’s starting to think the Shadowhand would be more pleased than angry to learn he stole it. Cronun continues, “How would you like to learn more magic, Essek?”

“Sorry?”

“Most people can’t perform a cantrip without formal instruction, and dunamantic spells are particularly difficult for beginners. But you performed a Minor Gravity Interruption with ease. Imagine what you could accomplish with real teaching. Are you interested?”

“I—of course!” Essek exclaims, unable to restrain the high thrill in his voice.

“Excellent. Come with me,” says Cronun, and begins walking back up the stairs, out of the jail. Essek follows, closely tailed by the Shadowhands guard. They pass the jailor on the way out, and Cronun waves genially at him as they go by. Essek mimics the gesture with a smirk.

Twinkling starlight greets them as they step out into the street. Essek lost track of where the guards took him after his arrest, but he recognizes now the quiet streets of the Firmaments. They walk only a few short minutes before the towers of the Marble Tomes Conservatory come into view.

Cronun leads them swiftly through the halls. Under normal circumstances, Essek would have never been allowed near the place, but walking alongside the Shadowhand, no one dares to question them. Rather than the usual sneers and glares Essek’s presence inspires, with Cronun he receives looks of curiosity at worst, awe at best.

They arrive eventually at a simple wooden door in a hall lined with several identical wooden doors, each labeled with a gold-stenciled name. This one reads _Professor Hamer VaSuun._

Cronun knocks twice on the door. Within seconds, a stout goblin woman with short, graying hair answers. Her eyes widen as she takes in her guests.

“Good afternoon, Shadowhand,” she says in a hoarse voice. “It’s been a while. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“It’s good to see you, Hamer. I’d like to introduce you to your newest student: Essek.” Cronun sweeps a hand toward Essek, who stands breathless.

“Is that so?” Professor Hamer raises an eyebrow. She turns her gaze to Essek. “To what den do you belong?”

“Indal,” mutters Essek, reluctantly speaking his obscure, rarely-used surname.

Professor Hamer tuts. “I’m not familiar.” She turns back to Cronun. “I’m afraid my classes are full.”

“Surely there’s room for one more,” says Cronun, undeterred. “Why don’t you test him out? If you’re not impressed, you have my deepest apologies for wasting your time.”

Professor Hamer purses her lips, looking between the two of them. “Oh, what the hell. Come in, boy.” She stands aside and waves Essek into her office. Cronun and his guard stay put. “Come in, and show me something impressive.”

* * *

“Essek,” Professor Hamer calls out at the end of the lecture. Essek pauses packing up his books as the other students file out. “Meet me in my office in ten minutes. I have some things I wish to discuss with you.”

“Yes, Professor.”

With nothing else to do in the meantime, he heads straight upstairs and lingers outside the office door until Hamer joins him. She waves him inside ahead of her, and he sits in the hard wooden chair opposite her cluttered desk.

“What was it you wanted to talk about, Professor?” he prompts her.

“I’ll be frank, Essek,” Hamer says. She’s not looking at him, but rather flipping and sorting through various papers and books. She does the same in the classroom with her lecture notes, her attention always in multiple places. “You are very bright. Very talented. Very dedicated. Don’t think I’m being flattering when I say your work is some of the most impressive I’ve ever seen from an amateur. Although I’m not sure I can even call you that anymore.”

She pauses her shuffling long enough to make eye contact with him over a sheet of paper covered in cramped handwriting. Essek can make out the header: _Notes on the interactions of dunamancy and mechanics,_ and the name ‘Waccoh’ repeated several times throughout.

“I’m considering bumping you up a level,” Hamer continues. “If you can complete the remainder of your coursework for this year before my Intermediate seminar starts, I’ll offer you a guaranteed spot.”

Essek does some quick math in his head. “You want me to do three months of work in three weeks?” 

“Yes. I’ll need the written work handed in by the tenth of Duscar, and if I find it satisfactory, we can schedule a practical demonstration. What do you say?”

Essek smiles. “Of course, Professor. I’ll get started right away.”

“Excellent. Now, to that end,” she sets her papers down, now giving him her full and unnerving attention. “Your ambition has not gone unnoticed. I assume you intend to do something with your education. Do you have any particular plans, career-wise?”

“I haven’t given it a great deal of thought,” Essek lies. “I’m not particularly picky about the immediate future, but my ultimate goal, I believe I share with every person in the Dynasty.”

Hamer smiles sardonically. “Consecution,” she says, voice a mix of disdain and reverence. “It’s a long and difficult road.”

“I’m aware,” says Essek. “Believe me.”

* * *

“How are you enjoying your lessons? Hamer tells me you’ve been advancing quite rapidly.” Shadowhand Cronun blows gently over his steaming cup of tea. 

“They’re wonderful,” says Essek, glowing at the compliment. Professor Hamer is not one to give praise lightly, or at all, in the classroom; he hasn’t heard anything remotely resembling a compliment from her since advancing to her Intermediate classes, which makes hearing the commendations she’s giving him behind his back all the more gratifying. 

“I’m glad to hear it,” Cronun grins. “I like it when my investments pay off.”

“Yes, sir. You must know how grateful—”

“Oh, stop it. We’ve been over this. You can thank me with your success,” he gives Essek a significant look over the rim of his cup.

“Yes, sir.”

Cronun takes a sip of tea and winces at the heat, still simmering. With a disapproving click of his tongue, he taps out an arhythmic beat against the cup, muttering arcane words under his breath. Essek watches as the steam arising from the drink thins, then disappears altogether. Cronun takes another experimental sip, and sighs. “Much better. And speaking of your success,” he continues, “that’s part of why I asked you to join me today. There’s someone I’d like to introduce you to. A very important person, indeed. Would you be available to return for tea again next week?”

“Of course,” says Essek. “May I ask who I will be meeting?”

“I prefer to keep it a surprise. Just make sure you dress well; appearances are very important to her.”

Essek glances down at his attire. Since moving into the dorms at the Marble Tomes Conservatory, he’s had a little more breathing room in his budget, but it’s only enough to buy garments without holes, not finery. 

“I’ll do my best,” he says, and hopes he isn’t blushing.

Cronun smiles reassuringly. “Don’t worry about it. You’ll do fine, I’m sure. I think she’ll find you charming.”

* * *

“Quor’elah, allow me to introduce you to Essek—he's the one I was telling you about. Essek, this is Quor’elah Thelyss, my Denmother.”

Essek bows low to the woman, a beautiful but severe-looking drow with her silver hair twisted into a tight bun. “A pleasure, my lady.”

She eyes him critically over her wire-framed spectacles. “This is the ‘prodigy’ then, Cronun, hmmm?”

Essek’s glad his head is still lowered, so Quor’elah can’t see his smile. He schools his face back into neutral before straightening up again. Quor’elah expression doesn’t change as she reaches a hand up to hold his chin. He resists the urge to flinch away, instead allowing her to turn his head to either side, considering him. His heart hammers underneath the fabric of his nicest shirt. 

“He’s certainly beautiful,” she says, still addressing Cronun as she examines Essek. She drops her hand from his chin. “I’m not one to be swayed by just a pretty face.”

“He’s much more than just that, Mother. Come, let’s sit,” Cronun says, and guides them both to the main dining room of his manor. 

Essek senses something off the moment conversation starts. In what time they’ve spent together socially, Cronun is always keen to ask after Essek’s studies, but he normally transitions early to reminiscing about his own life and discussing the few details of his work he’s able to disclose, urged on by an eager and inquisitive Essek. With Lady Thelyss present, Cronun takes every opportunity to direct the conversation back to Essek—not just his classes, but his passions, his ambitions, his personal history. Essek skirts carefully around the topics, sharing as little as he can while appearing to speak at length. He is well practiced by now in the art of selective omission, with years under his belt of living and working among aristocratic students, who are all so endlessly fascinated by the pauper in their midst. 

He really grows suspicious when Cronun suggests he demonstrate some of his learning for Lady Thelyss. 

Rather than dare to protest, Essek turns to Quor’elah and asks, “What would you like to see?”

“Dealer’s choice,” she says. A clear challenge.

Essek searches his memory for the most show-offish spell in his repertoire that won’t cause damage to anything or anyone. Good thing he only has the one coat, or he might have left his components pouch at home.

Drawing a piece of obsidian from his pocket, Essek outlines the runes in the air, murmuring the words to his most recently acquired spell. He only finished the notes on it for Professor Hamer last night; casting it for the first time in front of an audience is risky of course, but he’s a prodigy, isn’t he?

He draws a line through the air with the obsidian, and shadow begins to pour out of it, coalescing until it forms a faceless silhouette version of Essek. 

Lady Quor’elah raises a single eyebrow. _Impressed,_ Essek surmises, though she does well hiding it. 

“Resonant Echo. Impressive,” she says, and Essek fights the upward tick at the corner of his lips. “Am I to understand that means you have military ambitions?”

“Not exactly. Though it would be an honor to serve,” he adds, and Quor’elah smiles, contemptuous but genuine. 

“You’re well trained, I’ll give you that,” she says. “Your work, Cronun?”

“Not at all,” Cronun smiles. “You know me. I like to push them out of the nest, not teach them to fly.”

“Good instincts, then.” Quor’elah turns back to Essek. There’s a new layer to her appraising gaze, like she’s suddenly taking him much more seriously. 

“Give us a minute, would you Cronun?” she asks, not taking her eyes off of Essek. Cronun bows his head in deference and retreats wordlessly from the room, taking his tea with him. Essek watches him go, feeling suddenly much less at ease, but there’s excitement fluttering in his stomach along with anxiety. 

“What do you know of Den Thelyss, Essek?” Quor’elah asks as soon as Cronun has fully departed.

“It is one of the three primary dens of the Dynasty, known for producing powerful magic users. They—you—currently have Den Mirimm beat for number of members in the Queen’s court. A sterling reputation.” Essek lists off, not daring to consider the implication of the question.

“Correct,” Quor’elah replies. “And we guard that reputation with everything we have. We expect our members to uphold the highest level of dignity, professionalism, and devotion to Her Majesty.

I won’t deny I’m impressed by you, Essek. And the Shadowhand's recommendation goes a long way. Let me be clear— I am not promising you anything. But if you continue to excel in your magical studies, find a lucrative position within the Dynasty, prove your mettle as well as your talent… Just know I am keeping an eye on you. Scale the heights, and I would be glad to induct you into our number.”

Unable to fight off the smile entirely, Esseks does his best to keep it in the realm of reserved gratitude, rather than insatiable glee. “Thank you very much, my lady. I look forward to making you proud.”

“We’ll see,” she says, reaching out to cup a gentle hand against his cheek, a gesture somehow both motherly and despotic.

With that, she stands up and exits the same direction Cronun left to say a final goodbye to her host, leaving a half-finished cup of tea behind. One of Cronun’s servants hurriedly clears it away. Essek takes a long swig from his own cup, but the calming herbs do nothing to settle his roiling nerves.

Cronun returns a minute later, smiling as always.

“She looked pleased,” he says as he returns to his seat and his tea.

“I’ll take your word for it,” Essek replies

“Oh, she can be a bit sour, but trust me, I’ve known her a long time. We were consecuted together, you know. I can tell when she’s excited.”

“Why didn’t you tell me this was going to be an interview?” Essek asks.

“I didn’t want you to over-prepare. Quor’elah can sniff out that sort of thing a mile away. Better show her that you can think on your feet. Which you did splendidly, I might add. Resonant Echo was an excellent choice…” Essek tunes in and out as Cronun continues on, segueing into the story of his and Quor’elah’s consecution ceremony, so many centuries ago. He nods along, but rather than really listening, his mind's eye takes Cronun’s description and repaints the scene so that it is Essek himself standing before the Bright Queen, pledging himself to her service for all his continuous life.

* * *

Cronun offers him a job upon graduation: assistant to the Shadowhand, a higher position than anyone could hope to obtain with no prior experience. It’s difficult to turn it down, not least because of the old man’s crestfallen look when Essek tells him.

“My dear boy, why?” he asks, looking genuinely hurt. Essek sighs.

“You’ve done everything for me, Cronun. And I’m so incredibly grateful.” He places a hand on the Shadowhand’s mantled shoulder, a move he wouldn’t have dared make even a decade ago. He’s felt their relationship shift recently, becoming further from mentor and protege and closer to equals as Essek passed finally into official elven adulthood. “But I can’t depend on your good opinion for my whole career. I have to forge a reputation beyond you.”

Cronun shakes his head. “You’re too wise for your own good, you know.”

“I don’t believe there is such a thing,” Essek replies.

“Well, I wish you luck, nevertheless. And if my good opinion is still worth anything, I’m ready to put in a good word with whomever you need.” He smiles genially, and Essek mirrors it.

“Thank you, Shadowhand. I might just take you up on that.” 

It’s not just a wise decision, though; it’s a calculated one. Historically, the path to the Queen's court lies not in hierarchal status, but in merit. Essek could be the greatest assistant the Dynasty has ever seen, but he would be doing clerical work at best, and it would be in service of Cronun, not the Bright Queen. And Cronun, for all his sway, does not decide who gets consecuted.

* * *

Research isn’t the most glamorous vocation, but it’s perfect for Essek’s purposes; most every member of the court needs to consult the academics of the Marble Tomes at some point, and dunamancy is a popular topic of investigation. He forges a rapport with the Skysybil, the Taskhand, the Warhand, and so many other members of Rosohna’s high society, from behind his modest desk in the Conservatory. He impresses them with his depth of knowledge and genial manner, so much more personable than most of the pure academics— or so he hears from the various channels of court gossip he’s able to tap into.

He’s assigned to assist Professor Waccoh on one of her projects down the line, and while it’s by far the weirdest and most physically dangerous job he’s held so far, it ends up being the most beneficial.

Professor Waccoh, for her erratic manner and somewhat… rowdy reputation, is a powerful woman, and it’s after working for her, and her attesting to his capabilities as a caster as well as a theorist, that he receives a missive from Denmother Quor’elah Thelyss, requesting his presence at her home in the Lucid Bastion.

“I expect you know why I’ve summoned you here,” she says as soon as he enters her spacious drawing room. The servant who let him in departs silently, and the doors shut with a soft _click_ , leaving the two of them alone. 

“I don’t dare to assume,” Essek replies. Quor’elah smiles in precisely the same way she did at their first meeting.

“You’ve climbed remarkably high in a very short amount of time. There’s not a person in the Dynasty who doesn’t sing your praises.” She stands. “I think it’s safe to say you’ve fulfilled the terms of our agreement.”

“As I recall, there was no agreement. You did not promise me anything.”

Her smile grows even as she says sternly, “Don’t get cheeky now, boy. I can still change my mind.”

Essek inclines his head. “Deepest apologies, my lady.”

“There’s still work to be done, of course. Paperwork, a few…presentational details.” Quor’elah casts a critical eye over his person. She crosses the room to a desk in the corner and produces a business card from one of the drawers. Handing it to him, she says, “That is my personal tailor’s information. Tell her I sent you, and Den Thelyss will take care of the expense. Make sure you see her before the week is out, she gets terribly busy near the Day of Illumination. And I’ll send my hairdresser to your apartment tomorrow, I think.” Essek resists the fleeting urge to fidget with his clothes and hair. He’s quite proficient at hiding self-consciousness by now.

“Thank you, my lady,” he says instead.

Quor’elah tilts her head to the side, considering him. “You’ve proven yourself above and beyond, dear,” she says, sounding uncharacteristically sweet. “We’ll have you looking the part in no time.” She holds a ringed, manicured hand out to him.

“Welcome to the family, Essek Thelyss.”

* * *

_Essek Thelyss.Essek Thelyss.Essek Thelyss._

The name repeats continually in his mind as Essek considers his reflection, his lips soundlessly mouthing the shape of it. 

An errand boy delivered the packages earlier that morning, only days after he’d gone to Quor’elah’s tailor to be measured. Parcel after parcel of fine silks and satins: proper mages robes, practical everyday wear, even a set of pajamas, and a note assuring him that the armorer would be delivering his sets of ceremonial and battle armor the following day. 

He runs a hand over the shining silver buttons on his new coat, admiring in his reflection how the fabric ripples under his touch. He reaches up to touch the pads of his fingers to the shaved hair at the side of his head, enjoying the sensation.

Esteemed career, fine clothes, a stylish haircut, and the name to round it all out. _Essek Thelyss._ Finally, for certain, no more begging, no more scrounging, no more disdainful glares, no more gawking stares, no more backhanded compliments, no more suspicion, no more dismissals, no more proving himself worthy… for the rest of his endless life.

“Essek Thelyss.”

* * *

He arrives at the Lucid Bastion alone. Quor’elah meets him at the door and accompanies him to the throne room, carrying the signed paperwork which officially inducts him into Den Thelyss. 

The Bright Queen’s cathedral is as magnificent as the rumors said: the whole room glowing with bright, white light, the polished stone platform raising high the seats of the Queen's advisors, as well as the massive, white crystal throne. And sitting upon it, the Bright Queen herself, breathtakingly splendid in her glittering dress and imposing, horned headdress. 

With a of nod of permission from the Queen, Quor’elah approaches, slowly climbing up the staircase to hand her the papers. The Queen merely glances at them before turning her icy-blue gaze to Essek.

“Essek Thelyss,” she says, the name ringing out all the way up to the high arched ceilings, the sound of it sending shivers down Essek’s spine, which he doesn’t dare show as he approaches. He lowers himself to his knees, bowing his head before his Queen.

“Do you wish to be consecuted?” her voice is surprisingly soft, even as it continues to echo through the chamber.

“Yes,” he says, cutting off the automatic “my lady” afterwards, remembering Quor’elah’s instructions. Such formalities are traditionally omitted from the ceremony, when candidness and directness are paramount. 

“Do you swear to uphold the traditions and values of the Lord of Light, to honor the Luxon’s gifts, for all your coming lives?” the Skysybil asks.

“Yes,” says Essek.

“Do you swear to serve Her Majesty, Leylas Kryn, The First Umavi, for all your coming lives? Do you swear to protect her, even in the face of an irreversible death?” continues the Warhand.

“Yes,” says Essek.

“Do you swear to pursue the noble ends of the Light for all your coming lives, to devote your undying mind to learning the truths of the universe?” Cronun smiles as he recites the Shadowhand’s part of the vow.

“Yes,” says Essek.

“Bring forth the Beacon,” the Bright Queen calls, and a bugbear in long, gray robes—Vral, the High Cleric of the Luxon—rises from his seat, holding the artifact aloft as he descends the steps toward Essek. 

Essek read a great deal in preparation for this event. He knows exactly what to do, but nothing could prepare him for the sensation as he takes the Beacon into his hands. He hears Vral begin the incantation, but their gravelly voice fades until the sound seems to be coming from the other end of a long, echoing tunnel. He gazes unto the depths of the Beacon, feeling his heartbeat align with the pulse of light at its center. Images appear and fade: shadows, people, both familiar and alien. The allure is so strong he almost misses his cue, but he catches the Vral wrapping up the first half of the incantation. They speak the final lines, and Essek interjects smoothly with his memorized portion. Just four short phrases, and Vral begins reciting the second part of the ritual.

It is with great reluctance that Essek eventually pulls his consciousness away from the Beacon. His heart beats faster as the connection is severed, but otherwise he feels no different, physically. Maybe a bit faint, but there's no telling if that's a side effect of the consecution or just his own nerves.

"Congratulations, Essek Thelyss," the Bright Queen calls to him. A soft smile lights up her face, making her even more magnificent to behold.

* * *

Essek can’t say for sure that he’s ever been _happy_ , but the weeks following his consecution are certainly the closest he’s come to it. So of course, that’s when everything starts going to shit.

Cronun collapses, publicly and dramatically, on his way out of the throne room. Healers attend to him immediately in the infirmary of the Lucid Bastion, and return with inauspicious news; though clerics can heal most any injury, cure most any ill, they can do nothing for the proclivities of time. Cronun’s current body is not long for this world.

Though saddening, this news is not taken as particularly calamitous; Cronun is consecuted, after all. Essek finds himself oddly excited; he will miss his benefactor in the time it takes for the reincarnated spirit to regain its memories, but he looks forward to meeting Cronun in his new form. Essek has never known a consecuted person across multiple lifetimes. What body will he return to? Drow is statistically likely, given the radius, but it could be anything: goblin, orc, tiefling, bugbear, even. The prospect is fascinating. 

The day Cronun is returned to his home, with instructions of bedrest and for his servants to make him as comfortable as possible, Essek receives a summons to the Bright Queen’s chamber, his first time in her presence since his consecution. The invitation contains no hint as to why he’s being summoned, so it is with a mounting sense of foreboding that he approaches the throne room, this time with no Denmother at his side.

An armored guard opens the door for him, and he ascends the steps to the dais before the Queen.

“Your Majesty,” he begins. "I received a summons requesting my presence here immediately. How can I serve you?"

The Bright Queen looks down at him, eyes shining in contemplation.

“Yes, indeed, Essek. I have a proposition which, if you accept, would have you serve me in a most auspicious capacity." She offers him a soft smile. "With Cronun about to ascend to his next incarnation, I find myself in need of an pro tem Shadowhand to fulfill the duties until he may return. Cronun’s high opinion of you is well documented. I’ve spoken to my other advisors,” she glances about to the stony-faced individuals seated around her, “and your superiors at the Marble Tomes. Everyone who has met you attests to your capability, your work ethic, your keen intellect. Tell me: do _you_ think you are up to the task?”

Essek has lost track of her meaning. Heat rising in his cheeks, he says, “Pardon me, my lady?”

“Do you think you are capable, Essek Thelyss,” she repeats, not unkindly, “of serving as my interim Shadowhand?”

No, no, by the _Light_ no. He is not in the least qualified for that. It is his duty, as a subject of his Queen, to tell her this, no matter how humiliating it will be to admit in front of the whole court. He has to stop her from making such a terrible mistake.

But then again…

He does know more than most about the secretive duties of a Shadowhand from Cronun’s rambling stories. The clerics say it’s a matter of days before Cronun’s mortal body gives way to time, and once reincarnated, only about fifteen or sixteen years until his new body starts to remember. A handful more years of guided meditation, and then Essek would be stepping down for the previous Shadowhand to return once more to his position, and Essek would go back to his research having served his Queen and doing his den proud.. As long as he could avoid fucking up for a couple decades.

His name would go down in the books as holding one of the highest seats of power in the Dynasty. Temporarily, yes, but he would be even more respected for relinquishing power so graciously. He could erase anything he ever was before in the minds of his people, and cement himself as Essek _Thelyss_ , the most accomplished, the most respected…

“My Queen,” he speaks, and his voice echos powerfully off of the arched ceiling. “I swore an oath to serve you, in all things. I believe my reputation and testimonies speak to my capabilities. I am prepared to do whatever it takes to be of service to you. If you would offer me this position, I would be honored and humbled to accept.”

The Bright Queen lifts her chin. 

“You certainly know the right things to say, Essek. That’s a desirable quality in a Shadowhand.” She turns to the ancient goblin at her side. “Skysybil Mirimm will take care of the official paperwork.” The Skysybil nods, looking appraisingly at Essek. “Your Denmother will be informed, of course. I imagine she’ll want to arrange a celebration of some sort,” The Bright Queen continues. “Report back here tomorrow for a briefing on your duties, and Cronun’s ongoing projects. You’ll have access to all his files, and his assistant—yours, now, I suppose— should be able to answer any further questions.”

“Thank you, my Queen.”

* * *

His promotion is far more eventful than the consecution ceremony was, which seems backwards to Essek. Not only the Queen’s council is present, but the full court of Rosohna, and the entirety of Den Thelyss, excluding only those physically unable to attend. 

Essek wears the official robes of the Shadowhand, simple in their construction but more finely decorated and more expensive than any garment he has ever owned. He approaches the Queen’s dais to the accompaniment of several bards performing a stylized version of one of the more popular hymns to the Luxon.

He kneels before the Queen, careful to ensure that his robes land face up from the floor.

There’s no need for an oath; he already pledged himself before the Queen and the Light at his consecution. Instead, the Skysybil recites a brief outline of the Shadowhand’s duties, followed by a prayer led by the Vral and the other clerics from the primary Temple of Light. 

The Bright Queen descends from her throne, holding in her arms the Shadowhand’s mantle, the symbol of power and authority, forged and fitted for Essek's shoulders.

Still kneeling, Essek lifts his head up to meet her eye as she places the mantle over his shoulders. He tried it on once already, so the craftsmen could ensure it fit properly, but it feels somehow much heavier now.

“Rise, Shadowhand Essek,” says the Bright Queen, and he does, coming face to face with her, only inches between them. Up close, her beautiful turquoise eyes look so very, very tired. He wants to tell her he knows how she feels. He stays silent.

* * *

Shadowhand Cronun passes in the night. The next morning, a cleric discovers a Beacon missing from the Luxon’s temple.

Tensions with the Empire have been high for some time, but it wasn’t really something Essek paid attention to, much. Now, suddenly, it is his job to pay attention.

There’s no proof that the Empire was behind the theft, but no one in the Dynasty has any doubt. Many are looking to _him_ to find proof, desperate for any information with which to mount a counterattack.

As Essek fumbles his way through learning the ropes of espionage and his role in the Queen’s court, a constant worry hums at the back of his head, along with the other thousand that have formed a near-constant pressure since his promotion.

There is no indication that Cronun’s death had anything directly to do with the theft of the Beacon, but it’s a potentially disastrous coincidence. If the timing was right, there’s a chance that Cronun’s soul resides now in the stolen Beacon, and his reincarnation will enter a child not in Rosohna, but in the radius of wherever the Beacon was taken, anywhere between here and the depths of the Empire. They might not find him. He might not get reincarnated at all.

Essek is more accustomed to grief than most of his peers, having grown up around and lost people who were not consecuted, who had nothing waiting for them beyond their first life. He grieves for Cronun’s predicament, but there is another consequence of this disaster for him to consider. There is no knowing if Cronun’s soul is gone, or resides in one of the remaining Beacons. He could return in twenty or so years, or not at all.

Essek signed up for a temporary stint as Shadowhand. If Cronun never returns, would they replace him, or keep him in the position indefinitely? Which does he want?

In the end, he knows: being replaced would be the ultimate shame. It was one thing, knowing he would have to step down to the reincarnation of the rightful Shadowhand. The prospect of abdicating to another Dynasty citizen, one deemed more worthy than him, is entirely unacceptable. 

As the years pass, the job takes its toll. He barely sleeps anymore, trances fraught with fevered stress dreams that stir him after only an hour’s rest. The pain in his old knee injury, absent for so long, flares up enough that he starts casting a floatation spell on himself every morning so as not to strain it by walking. But even as stress wears away at his body, he pushes himself to work ever harder, fearing the day when the Bright Queen declares they have found his replacement. He dreams of it sometimes, the faces of his colleagues alternating between disappointed and jeering, Quor’elah shaking her head as she casts him out of the den, whispers following him wherever he goes, _disgrace, failure, worthless waste of space…_

* * *

Years pass. One decade, then two. There is no whisper of Cronun’s reincarnation.

Essek remains Shadowhand, but each passing day he keeps his position does little to ease the ever-present needle of panic in the back of his mind. 

The salves the healers gave him for his knee work wonders, but he continues casting the floatation spell day after day. He’s grown to enjoy the looks of awe he gets from commoners and colleagues alike as he glides past. 

* * *

Another beacon goes missing. War is declared. Essek’s workload triples.

Every time he sees the Bright Queen, her eyes seem a little colder, her posture a little stiffer. She’s as regal as ever, but anger flashes behind her every word. Tensions are rising beyond everyone’s capacity to endure, even her’s, and he just wants it to _stop._

But it can’t. 

* * *

It’s another boring day in court, until it isn’t.

Essek is only partially paying attention to the visitors at first. They’re strange, surely, but he has grown used to strange things in his time as the Shadowhand. He quirks a smile at the blue one’s colorful account of their service in Assarius, narrows his eyes as Lythir reveals their true colors as Empire allies, sits back in his seat when the Bright Queen calls the guards and the whole show is clearly about to be over.

Then, the human man speaks up for the first time. 

Essek’s eyes passed over the humans in this group initially; he finds slavery generally distasteful, and the leather harnesses they wear as marks of their servitude just make him more inclined to ignore them rather than dwell. 

There is no ignoring the man now, as he produces a lost Beacon from the teifling’s pink bag and raises it aloft in the middle of the throne room.

“I may be of the Empire," he calls out to the room at large in a damning Zemnian accent. "But I am no friend to the Empire.” Essek’s breath stops along with every other person in the room.

He’s paying much closer attention now, as the group converses with the Bright Queen. He tries to maintain due skepticism, necessary for his job and when dealing with Empire people, but he finds it hard to stay suspicious when they are clearly so ignorant of the significance of what they have done. When the teifling girl whispers to her friend "Did you just ask her if she was on her period?" he almost fails to stifle his laugh at that particular miscommunication. It’s been a long time since Essek’s perpetual smile actually felt genuine, since he’s laughed out of anything other than politeness.

They are _ridiculous._ They are saviors. 

* * *

Essek has seen humans before. Though rare, a handful have passed through Rosohna, and he’s seen even more through scrying and spying on the Empire. 

But he’s never seen red hair before, and he finds himself endlessly fascinated by it. He first took notice in the throne room, when the lights of the cathedral cast the Zemnian man’s head in shades like flickering fire. 

Now, the green street lamps and the stringed lights decorating the tree (the tree _,_ by the Light, _the tree_ ) turn it a glinting copper as Essek considers Caleb Widogast, several thoughts battling in his mind.

Dunamancy is a jealously guarded secret, one which the Empire seems keen to exploit through their theft of the Beacons. But Caleb has denounced the Empire, and he claims his motivation in learning dunamancy at all is the stop the Cerberus Assembly. Essek isn’t sure he fully believes this, but he also can’t bring himself to believe Caleb intends to bring whatever Essek might teach him back to the Assembly. No matter how hard he tries to.

Complying with this request would likely be met with disapproval by the Queen, and could make his already delicate position in court even more precarious. On the other hand, it would do a lot to ingratiate him to their guests. Refusing could sour the trust he is meant to be cultivating with this oddball group.

“Are you busy right now?” he asks, praying it won’t come back to bite him in the ass.

Caleb shakes his head, looking rather surprised.

“Let me show you a few things.”

* * *

They come, they go. Sometimes Essek manages to forget about them for stretches, until Jester inevitably interrupts his concentration with a strange and discursive message. At first, it’s dreadfully annoying. Later, he’ll be elbows deep in days worth of backlogged reports and find himself wishing for the interjection of her cheery voice in his mind, asking him some ridiculous question. Anything to interrupt the pounding in his head and let him shift his focus while still being able to justify it as work. They are his charges, after all, and he is duty bound to assist them. Queen’s orders.

“What are they like?” his assistant, Padora, asks him eagerly one day, after he returns from teleporting them to certain death by dragon. “The Heroes?”

“They are… fascinating,” is all he can manage to come up with. Then he sends Padora away to deliver yet another message to Taskhand Adeen, looking mildly disappointed that she didn’t get more details.

What was we he supposed to say to her? That Jester is the only person who can make him laugh these days? That he thinks Beauregard may be capable of singlehandedly stopping this war through sheet grit and nerve? That he finds Caduceus' sincerity both comforting and frightening in equal measure? That he wants desperately to ask Fjord what happened to his accent, but they’re not close enough for that and he can’t risk coming off as rude? That it kills him when Nott still looks at him with suspicion in her yellow eyes, though he can hardly blame her? That Caleb…

* * *

After their second unsanctioned dunamancy lesson, Essek’s stress dreams take a turn for the scandalous. Caleb features quite heavily. Sometimes it ends with his newly designated friend stabbing him in the back with a concealed blade, much like how the scourger prisoner sliced open Caleb’s neck in the Dungeon of Penance. Other nights, his dreams end with the two of them lying blissfully in bed, holding each other close.

Essek can’t decide which version is worse; both leave him with a sick feeling in his stomach upon waking.

* * *

He told them to keep in touch. He was beginning to forget there was ever a time when Jester didn’t send him constant messages, and now weeks of silence.

_They’re fine, they’re fine, they’re fine,_ he repeats to himself whenever the worry distracts him, as many times as it takes to force himself back to productivity.

_They’re fine, they’re fine, they’re—_ his mantra is interrupted when a red-faced and panting guard bursts into the throne room, just as the Warhand is finishing reading the daily reports from her field generals.

“Your Majesty,” the guard shouts, stopping short in the center of the room. They cower slightly under the gaze of the entire court, but hold their ground.“There’s a woman here who demands an audience with you and your advisors. She says she is a dignitary from Tal’dorei.”

Curious murmurs weave through the room, echoing across from either side of the throne. The Bright Queen waits for the din to die down before she leans forward in her chair, inclining her head toward the guard. “Did you get a name, perhaps?”

“Allura Vysoren, my lady.”

“I’ve heard of her!” a voice pipes up from the left side of the room. Essek’s eyes follow the sound and light upon the round, half-orc face of Deilani Mirimm, Denmother of Den Mirimm. She continues in the excited tone of one who rarely speaks up in court. “She’s listed as a member of the Arcana Pansophical, and she’s mentioned in _The Adventures of Taryon Darrington_ as a member of the Council of Tal’dorei!”

“So we can confirm she is who she claims to be,” muses the Bright Queen. A ddressing the guard, she asks “Why is she here?”

“I don’t know, my lady. She refuses to speak to anyone but you.”

The Bright Queen is silent for a long moment, lips pressed together in consideration. She turns a questioning look to the Warhand, who whispers a reply Essek can’t make out.

“Send her in,” the Queen announces. With a hurried bow, the guard scurries away.

They return a moment later leading a stoic human woman in an elegant blue dress, flanked by two additional guards a few paces behind, just in case.

Allura Vysoren surveys the Queen’s court with an impassive expression, but Essek catches the familiar glint of insecurity behind her eyes even from here.

“Empress Leylas,” she greets, inclining her head respectfully, though not a full bow. Her voice is soft and calm, but clear through the deadly silent hall. A few ears perk up curiously at hearing her Tal’dorei accent. “Thank you for seeing me. It is an honor.”

“We are honored to host such an esteemed foreign guest,” the Bright Queen replies. “But I assume you have not come to Xhorhas, unannounced, in the middle of a war, to exchange diplomatic pleasantries. I beg you to speak plainly.”

“Of course, my lady.” Allura takes a deep breath. “I am here to deliver information regarding a threat known as the Angel of Irons cult, which I recently obtained from a group called the Mighty Nein. I believe you are familiar?”

_Light above, they’re alive!_ This thought rises above all the many conflicting notions running through Essek’s head as Allura lays out everything she’s learned about Tharizdun and the coinciding attacks on Rexxentrum by both the Dynasty and the cult. The Bright Queen agrees to recall the Kryn forces for the time being, and underneath Essek’s immense relief lies the nagging doubt: _Why didn’t they tell me all this themselves?_

* * *

Despite the stress, the headaches, and the endless piles of paperwork on both his office and home desk, there are actually many parts of Essek’s job which he genuinely enjoys. 

Torture is not one of them.

He delegates as much as he can to his subordinates, but unfortunately, his particular magical specialties lend themselves quite well to imparting physical and psychological discomfort. He tries to treat it as just another task to complete, a duty to his Queen. This strategy works decently well; the screams only follow him home about half the time.

But he’s never had to torture someone he knows, and it’s become very apparent that compartmentalization is much easier when dealing with alien, Empire faces. Every spell he casts on Taskhand Adeen feels like it reflects back on him, his own gravitational control constricting his organs and pulling skin away from his bones. 

He keeps his face as impassive as ever through the entire two-day process. He overhears some of the guards talking after a particularly grueling interrogation, remarking in hushed voices about the eerily calm Shadowhand.

“Ruthless, he is,” one of them whispers, unaware of Essek lingering in the shadows.

“It’s scary. But I guess you’ve got to be pretty merciless, to get where he’s gotten.”

_You have no idea,_ Essek thinks as he prepares to go in again for another round.

He’s just outside the interrogation room when that familiar, lilting accent enters his head after so long in silence.

_Guess who’s back!_

The guards all notice the Shadowhand perk up with alertness as he listens to the message, but none of them can read the joy he feels underneath his inscrutable exterior.

* * *

It’s with a heavy heart that he offers to Teleport them back to the Empire after the audience with the Bright Queen—back to their home. They all give him confused looks, and assure him that they don’t need it. He’s not sure whether to be glad they’re staying the night, or saddened that they clearly no longer have use of his transportation services.

The correct answer, of course, is neither. He _should_ be entirely indifferent to their actions so long as they pose no hint of threat to the Dynasty. But professional detachment is a ship that sailed long ago with this group. He can admit that to himself, even if he can never confess as much to anyone else.

Less than five minutes after departing from them, Jester’s disembodied voice echoes in his ear once again

_Essek, we don’t know anything about you, we just realized! We should hang out more!… Are you single? Do you have kids?_

He lets out a snort of laughter. A drow woman crossing the street in the other direction gives him a strange look. She averts her gaze quickly when she takes in his hovering, mantled form and realizes whose presence she is in.

“That was quick,” he replies to the night air. “I’m not…particularly interesting. Don’t like to talk about myself much. Don’t worry.”

He’s nearly back at the Lucid Bastion now, where a sleepless night of work awaits him. He thinks of the Mighty Nein’s dinner invitation, imagines briefly if he had accepted. It would only have delayed his fate, but he still wishes desperately to be there rather than here, relaxing with them all, being entertained by their absurd conversations, maybe engaging Caleb in the kind of intellectual discussion he hasn't had time for since he was a researcher. Although, a very real fear grips his heart as he imagines the prospect of Jester asking him these personal questions to his face, where he could not evade her. Better to keep a distance, surely.

“Just happy to be around.”

**Author's Note:**

> I did my best to be accurate regarding the timeline and what we do vs. don't know about the Dynasty, but I'm sure I made many mistakes. Please don't feel obligated to point them out to me.
> 
> Come find me on [tumblr](https://the-littlest-goblin.tumblr.com/)! We can talk about how Essek is _definitely not the traitor._


End file.
